Monthly Archives: January 2010

The strength of not giving a damn

We have all been asked of this quiz question before:

What Super Power do you wish you had?

I still don’t know what my answer should be.

Flying?

Mind control?

Teleporting?

“The ability to eat as much as I want without gaining any weight”. Yeah. That’s what I am thinking right at this moment.

You all know The Bloggess. She of the power of turning everything into a hilarious nature. Really. We should send her to the frontline, protected inside an armor car of course, and give her a microphone. She has the Super Power of turning people into a howling, thigh-slapping, LMAOROTF, Dionysian mass. And believe me: I normally do not like touching my own thighs. Except one thigh would always inadvertently touching the other, but that cannot be helped. I sometimes would get mind-clarifying, “Come to Jesus” moments when I read her blog. It ain’t all fluff.

A line I heard from the video embedded in one of her posts still haunts me till this day:

“I have the intellectual confidence to appear stupid sometimes.”


THIS, is one of the best quotes I have learned in my whole life. Now, please repeat it with me:

“I have the intellectual confidence to appear stupid sometimes.”

 

I believe, by internalizing this line, we can all be liberated from self-consciousness and self-censorship. I believe this will be especially helpful for women climbing the corporate ladder, especially if the work place is predominantly male.

At first I thought that men are so good at “chiming in” and “making their points” at any meeting because they somehow were privy to this secret. Nah. Based on my years of ethnographic study of the male species in the corporate jungle, I believe that they are so good at “speaking up” because, unlike women who are often self-reflexive, most men never even consider the possibility that what comes out of their mouth may just be flat out the stupidest thing someone has ever heard of. See, they never apologize before they speak. The strength of not giving a damn. THAT is the Super Power I would like to have.


Today’s BOGO special:

In addition to the quote above that can serve as an awesomely witty throw-away remark when someone suggests that you are intelligence-challenged, AFTER you sucker punch them of course, here is another motto for you to use in your role as Truth Seeker:

We are entitled to our own opinions; we’re not entitled to our own facts. Al Franken

You never know what’s going to remind you of your childhood…

My mom and dad called last Friday. Actually my mom did. Mom’s always the one that calls. And she always calls around 9 pm when it is the absolutely most friggin’ chaotic in the house. And she always pleads innocence saying she cannot figure out the time difference. And she always asks, “Have you eaten yet?” even after I tell her “It is 9 pm here. Ma!”

“It is cold there now, right? It is freezing here.” My mom says. Every single time during the winter. Did I tell you that they live in Taiwan? A sub-tropical island? The temperature in Taipei was supposed to reach 69 °F that day (as opposed to 36 °F here in Chicago and actually considered to be warm since it is finally above friggin’ freezing…)

“Ma. Sigh. You do know that the weather there has nothing to do with the weather here, right?” I could not bite my tongue and just let this one go.

“But it is really cold here. I bet it feels colder here.” My mom is a “last-worder” too: that’s probably where I got it. Between my husband and myself, my kids are doomed both nature- and nurture-wise. “Do you want to talk to your dad? Oh wait. Your dad wants to talk to you. Actually, he asked me to call you.”

Pleasantly surprised since my dad never wanted to talk to me on the phone, not that he loves me less but because he’s a man, I screamed, “Ba!” (The Chinese word for “Dad”) when my mom handed him the receiver. At 80, my dad is hard of hearing nowadays.

“Have you eaten yet?” He said, without a beat.

Sigh. “Yes. I have.”

“Is it snowing in Chicago because it is really cold here.”

Sigh. “Actually it is warmer today because it is above freezing.”

“Really? That’s something.”

“So… what’s going on? What are you doing today?” I know better than to expect my 80-year-old father to tell me something exciting in his plan for the day.

“Nothing. Just watching TV…. You haven’t called home for a long time. Is your husband still out of the country?”

“Yeah. He’s in Spain this time.”

“That’s what I thought when you didn’t call home for a long time. You must be very busy with the kids then.”

As if on cue, my oldest came to stand by my side and whispered loudly, “Mom. Mom. Mom!”

I glared at him and pressed my point finger to my lips. Ignoring my gesture, he continued,

“Mom! My gum hurts because my tooth here,” he proceeded to open his mouth with both hands so I could see better, “See? It is coming out. My tooth! My gum hurts!”

I turned my back towards him. He did not give up and came around to the other side, “So I need to go see a dentist…”

“Dad. Hold on. Just a sec.” I switched to English to deal with the dental crisis that was not, “Can’t you see I am on the phone with my parents? We’ll talk about this later.”

As if he did not hear what I just said, he switched to a brand new subject, “Mom, we need to pick up my new glasses!”

“I will. Tomorrow! I need to bring you with when we pick up your glasses…” I gritted my teeth.

All this time, Mr. Monk was on the floor pouring sugar into a bowl so he could make crystals according to the science book that he got last November. He never showed interest in the darn book until I was on the phone. Now he was next to me as well,

“Mom. What is a saucer?… Is it this?” He pulled out the biggest pot to show me, making a loud clattering noise.

“NO! That is NOT a saucer. And why do you need a saucer NOW for god’s sake?!” I raised my voice.

Seriously. They were quietly reading at the kitchen table before the phone rang. It just seems that EVERY TIME when I am on the phone, all of a sudden they have urgent information to share, questions to ask, emergencies to deal with. The sky is falling! We need your attention NOW!

I could hear my dad on the other side of the phone line: “It sounds like your children need you. I just want to hear you voice. We’ll talk later.”

“No. Dad!” He hung up before I could protest further. I frantically tried to dial my parents’ phone number. I am not making this up: in order to call my folks, I need to dial 22 friggin’ numbers. That’s right. 22. After the third try, the call finally went through.

“Mom. Is dad there? Could I talk to him?”

“He hung up on you, didn’t he? That man. He always does that. I told him to give me the phone and he said you were busy! Here he is.”

“Dad. You didn’t have to hang up!”

“But you are busy. You should go tend to the children.”

Exasperated now. “No. They can wait. They are not babies any more. They need to learn to be respectful!”

Of course, all this was said in Chinese so my children did not get any benefits from this lecture which explained why at this exact moment, at the same time, my oldest decided to play on a laptop that ran out of power and was struggling to get the power cord out from behind a desk at the risk of toppling everything that was sitting on the desk, and my youngest decided to pour sugar solution (sugar:water 6:1) from a sauce pot into a shallow saucer.

I watched all of it unfold in slow motion, and I could feel myself boiling. I did not even bother to cover the receiver as I exploded.

“WHY CAN’T YOU SEE THAT I AM TALKING TO MY PARENTS? HOW OFTEN DO I GET TO TALK TO THEM? I AM ONLY ON THE PHONE FOR FIVE MINUTES! DID ANYBODY BLEED? IS ANYBODY DYING? NO? THEN DON’T INTERRUPT ME! NOTHING IS THAT URGENT! Go to your rooms NOW! No. Don’t touch anything. Leave that on the floor. Just GO TO YOUR ROOM!”

Switching to Chinese, “I am back. Dad, what were you saying?” I was expecting him to give me another lecture about being more lady-like.

“Whoa. You sounded just like my mother when we were little.” My dad commented.

My grandmother had 14 children. I have never met her, and my dad has not told me much about his mother, that is, he has never really reminisced about his childhood. When I was around, I was too young to ask these questions; now that I am old enough, I am not around enough.

Not sure whether this was something I should defend myself against, I defended my grandmother instead. “Well. There were so many of you. If she did not yell like that, she probably could not keep all of you in check.”

“That’s what I said. You sounded just like my mother.” He chuckled.  “That really reminds me of when I was a kid. We lived on a farm so she could yell like that without disturbing the neighbors.”

Maybe I was just imagining things, but he sounded like he had tears in his eyes when he said again, so quietly this time as if he weren’t talking to me,

“Wow. This really brings back childhood memories.”

sacré bleu

I rushed to the Religious Ed with Mr. Monk as I always do on most Saturday mornings. I then walked to the 6th grade classroom to inform the Catechist that my oldest would not be there that day. We got to talking about his son.

“…He has a Ph.D. in [something akin to Rocket Science]…”

“Oh my god.” I was genuinely happy for him as I sensed the pride in his voice.

“… and he was the valedictorian in this school, and also at his high school…”

“Oh my god.” I liked how he was able to talk about his son’s accomplishments without appearing to be bragging.

“… He still tutors kids for SATs and all those exams. He’s very good… He’s at [Top Notch University] now but he comes home frequently so if you ever need help…”

“Oh my god. He teaches at [Top Notch University] too?!”

After the 3rd “Oh my god” I finally caught myself: Breaking the third (?) Commandment right here inside a Catholic school in front of a Catechist. Three times.

“Eh.” I pressed my hands together palm-to-palm like in a Buddhist prayer (just something I do unconsciously when I am feeling grateful or apologetic), “I am sorry for ‘using the Lord’s name in vain’…”

While chastising myself silently for using the “quotation marks” in a way that could be easily misinterpreted as being sarcastic, I hightailed out of there before I could say “Sweet Baby Jesus!”

Trouble Maker? You talking to me?

Sometimes I wonder whether the teachers talk about the parents amongst themselves. I would probably be known as “Trouble Maker”. My favorite moment was when I confronted approached the principal at the Thanksgiving Feast:

“Could I safely assume that the headpieces the children are wearing are ‘turkeys’ and not ‘head dresses’?” I used the quotation marks and I gave him an “I am just kidding, but only half” look.

“Huh? Ohh. I am sure they are turkeys…” Well, he did not sound so sure. He sounded surprised. I was surprised that HE was surprised. You mean, nobody else but me wondered about THAT? Anyway, he’s been put on notice and he seems scared to see me ever since. I can hear him inside his head, “Oh. For crying out loud. What now?!” Fortunately for all of us, I work full-time and I hardly ever go to school.

Today I wrote an email* to my 6-grade-son’s teacher:

Dear Mrs. G,

D told me yesterday about Heather’s big birthday party bash. She has apparently invited the whole class to her house from 2 to 8 pm. It sounds like it is going to be an awesome party. The IT party of their childhood before they go off onto Middle School.

Being a pain in everybody else’s neck, I asked D whether all seven girls in the class actually do hang out with each other.

“Does anybody get left out? You know, it’s going to hurt a lot if one of them gets left out seeing how few girls you have in your class.”

I don’t know why. Nobody gave me the job of being purveyor of social justice. Like I said, I am just a pain. Probably born that way. I am sorry… Really. I am. Because I make troubles whenever I send you an email.

At my question, D paused and said, “Well, she sort of invited the whole class. Except one.”

“What? Who?” But I already knew the answer, based on things D has told me in the past.

“Charles Wu was not invited.”

“And she gave out the invitations to everybody else in class? Does Charles know about this?”

D’s eyes turned red.  “Yeah. I think he knows.”

“We play with Charles during recess and we are nice to him.” He continued, his eyes getting redder. “I guess all that is just skin deep…”

I am not writing to ask you to talk to Heather about any of this. On the contrary. It will probably worsen Charles’ status on the food chain. Besides, if she is indeed forced to include Charles, I shudder at the thought of what’s going to happen to him at the party. Probably nothing. Exactly nothing. Nobody would talk to him or play with him. Indifference is the most hurtful thing one human being can do to the other.

I am writing, in addition to me being a pain, to let you know the situation in case Charles seems down lately. I am sure you have seen THIS many many times in your years of teaching. So please tell me I am making too big a deal out of this. (Yeah, I know. I wish I did not read Lord of the Flies either…) Please tell me that they all survive, that they all walk out of this unscathed. But I know, I never forget what happened to me in elementary school. And it still hurts because nobody talked to me about it when it was happening.

Sincerely,
[Me]

* Names have been changed to protect the innocent. Just in case.

Wanker Wednesday: My problems with “The Help”

I probably don’t need to publish this post on my blog. It is not appealing. It is not good writing. It will not make you laugh out loud. It is not even a proper rant. Besides, it is friggin’ long – I am amazed at how much I tapped out on my iPhod, and tedious. I am not even making any coherent argument, not to mention grammatical errors! Run-on sentences! totally exposing myself as a feeble-minded person. Even the title spells “MEH”.

That being said, I feel this pathological need to be on the record, I guess. Since I have been treating this blog as my diary, I want everything that comes out of my head to be on here. So, sorry about this… mental puke…

I brought the book, The Help, by Kathryn Stockett with me on my flight back home last December. I have had the whole flight between IAD and Narita to ponder on this book. I won’t even attempt at writing a review since I am really not qualified to do so. And at any rate, there are already more than 1,400 reviews on Amazon.com. Furthermore, all the book reviewers in the major news outlets have done so and waxed poetic on this book, with one of them comparing The Help to To Kill A Mocking Bird.* I will just make a list of things that I have been chewing on. By Tap Tap Tap on my iPhone (without a SIM) and therefore heavy editing involved thereafter.

Spoiler alert: If you are thinking of reading this book, you should skip this. I will also be 100% honest with myself, which means I will be contradictory, at times nonsensical, and possibly offending, especially if you love the book.

Confession first: I enjoyed reading this book tremendously. Cliché, yes. Truth is: it IS a page turner. For me. From the moment when I opened it in August when I first received it, I could not completely put Aibileen out of my head until the Christmas week, when I finally had time to sit down and read the book in long stretches.

The stories are riveting. The voices are, as much as I hate using this word because it is often confused with “stereotypical”, or at the very least “archetypal”, the voices sound to me “authentic”. That is, when I was reading it, when I was caught up in the drama of the story that was being expertly told, when I was kept in suspense as to the safety of the women, when I was hoping with clenched fists and a racing hear that they would triumph over evil and that justice would be done. Well, justice be done to a certain extent, in the strict confines of the story-telling.

Now I ask myself: How many Southerners do I know? None.

Do I know any African American domestic help? Nope.

What do I know about Southern dialects and accents? Not a thing.

So what do I know about whether the book is “authentic” or not? Hasn’t this always been the gripe I have against books like Memoirs of a Geisha? That a fiction novel, on account of its main characters being of a non-white race, is evaluated and praised for delivering an “authentic” portrayal. Do we even care whether Dan Brown’s characters are authentic or not?

Damn the identity politics theories I read, classes I took.

I cannot help, in the back of my mind, though I immensely enjoyed the stories of these women, that a white woman took possession of the black women’s stories twice, especially after I read Kathryn Stockett’s personal note at the end of the book: like Skeeter in the story, Stockett wrote the black women’s stories and gained wild success.

I understand the above statement reeks of identity politics, but I cannot help the gnawing feelings in the back of my head.

What bothers me even more is Skeeter’s cajoling, forcing almost, these women into telling her their stories because she was told that she needed to write something that nobody had ever written before in order to get into the publishing world. Throughout I was extremely uncomfortable with her motive: next to the all too real risk to the black women’s lives, her motif seems so trivial. Selfish even. What is the potential downside for her engagement in this feat? None too serious really. And indeed, there was a happy ending for Skeeter. But for Minnie and Aibileen the future remained uncertain.

Although I do wish something horrible would happen to the wrong-doers and was a bit let down when it didn’t, I do applaud the author for not cheapening the story by taking the easy way out. They are still in the mid 1960s in Mississippi and it is not like they are going to all of a sudden find true equality by the end of the book. I need to give the author props for not providing her White readers with an easy cathartic way to assuage the white guilt. “The villain that caused such misery is dead/appropriately punished, all is well in the universe. Now get on with your merry life.”

As I mentioned, the book received gleaming reviews. From White book reviewers. This could be racist on my part, and certainly identity politics at its worst as some might say, nevertheless, I feel I NEED TO know how an African American reader may feel about this book. NOT because a white woman from a privileged family in the South wrote this book, but because, again, despite my immense enjoyment of this book, and yes indeed I feel guilty for liking this book when I started wondering how my friends back in my graduate study classes would have said about this book, I cannot ignore the conflation of the tropes: 1. the White heroine being rescued, or finding self-realization, through Black folks around her that she does not socialize with, 2. Black people, unable to help or save themselves, being rescued by a White person.

I imagine this book already optioned by a movie studio. Or soon will be. Anyway you look at it, it IS going to be a great vehicle for some of the outstanding African American actresses, and god only knows how hard it is for a good script with a strong minority character lead to make it all the way to some head honcho’s desk. I do hope that the script and the actor that portrays Leroy would breathe some more life into him rather than the one-dimensional wife-beater. When in doubt, we reach for the things we share as women: abusive husbands, cheating boyfriends, sexist Chauvinistic patriarchs. In that process, our men are further demonized. Joy Luck Club immediately comes to mind. I can’t watch that movie without cringing. Not a single man in that movie is worthy of loving. Is it why it was accepted by the white mainstream audience? “Poor Asian women. They are so much better off over here. Away from their men.”

When The Blind Side came out, and the Internet was all abuzz about what a feel good movie it was, it immediately raised the mental red flag for me. “Feel good” means, to me, “Not for you. You are probably not the target audience/reader. Stay home. Otherwise you won’t feel good.”

I asked an African American columnist whether she planned to see the movie,

“No. We don’t consider that movie an attractive idea.” She said coyly.

* The surest way to incite heated debate against the worth of any book is to compare it to the beloved To Kill a Mocking Bird… So if you hate someone, yeah, go ahead and compare them to Harper Lee.

We are all in this

Mr. Monk, my 7-year-going-on-50-old child, asked me last Friday at dinner,

“Mom, is it true that you would not be here if Martin Luther King did not give THAT speech?”

I was caught by surprise, I’ll be completely honest. Although I understand the impact Dr. King’s speech has had on the American history, culture and psyche, it has never occurred to me that what Dr. King said from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial on August 23, 1963 would have material effect on my personal fate. After all, I was not even born then in 1963. What’s more, I was born in Taipei and grew up there and did not make my way to the U.S. until 1993.

I looked at my husband, and although he looked as puzzled as I was, he did give me the “a-ha” look that confirmed what was racing through my mind. Mr. Monk was right.

The Chinese Exclusion Act, a federal law enacted in 1882, was not repealed until 1943 (China was, after all, an ally during WWII…) when Chinese already residing in the U.S. were permitted to become naturalized citizens. However, it was not until the Immigration Act in 1965 when the federal law in the U.S. was relaxed enough to allow large number of immigrants, especially from the non-European parts of the world (contrary to the belief by the politicians at that time, I am sorry to point this out), to enter the country legally. The Civil Rights Movement led by Dr. King in the 1960s opened the eyes of many Americans to the rampant racism permeating the country and therefore made the passage of the Immigration Act even thinkable.

“You are right. It is possible that Mommy would not have been allowed to enter this country if the Civil Rights Movement had never happened.”

As I looked at Mr. Monk, his beautiful face, wondering what was inside that little head of his, it came to me: And there was the laws against interracial marriages!

Anti-miscegenation laws were not eradicated completely from the U.S. until 1967. As a matter of fact, as recently as in October 2009, a Justice of the Peace in Louisiana refused to officiate the civil wedding of an interracial couple, citing his concern for the wellbeing of the interracial offspring produced from such a union. (No, I am not making this shit up… I wish I were. Believe me.)

I added, “You are right. Without Dr. King, it is possible that daddy and mommy were not even allowed to get married.”

“And that means I would not even be here!” Mr. Monk said with amazement, looking pleased and proud that his existence on earth was made possible because Dr. Martin Luther King gave that speech, 47 years ago.

And he was right.

I love you, Lily Coyle of Minneapolis

By now everyone of us have heard of what Pat Robertson has to say about the earthquake that just about leveled Haiti. I cannot help it, here is the highlight of his point:

“They were under the heel of the French. You know, Napoleon III and whatever. And they got together and swore a pact to the devil. They said, ‘We will serve you if you will get us free from the French.’ True story. And so, the devil said, ‘OK, it’s a deal.'”

If you have a strong stomach and does not wince easily, here is the broadcast of his show where he made this, eh, huh, “unfortunate” statement.

First we were shocked. Disbelief. Then we quickly got over the puzzlement of “Why is Pat Robertson still relevant?” amidst this unspeakable human tragedy and the global mobilization to send aids to this country that had so little for its people and so much to suffer even before the devastations by the earthquake. But a response must be given. And how?

How do you even react to something so outlandish that your first thought was, “Is this from The Onion, again? The Onion surely has been making into a lot of high-profile news lately…”

Why, a letter from the devil himself, of course!

Dear Pat Robertson,

I know that you know that all press is good press, so I appreciate the shout-out. And you make God look like a big mean bully who kicks people when they are down, so I’m all over that action. But when you say that Haiti has made a pact with me, it is totally humiliating. I may be evil incarnate, but I’m no welcher. The way you put it, making a deal with me leaves folks desperate and impoverished. Sure, in the afterlife, but when I strike bargains with people, they first get something here on earth — glamour, beauty, talent, wealth, fame, glory, a golden fiddle. Those Haitians have nothing, and I mean nothing. And that was before the earthquake. Haven’t you seen “Crossroads”? Or “Damn Yankees”? If I had a thing going with Haiti, there’d be lots of banks, skyscrapers, SUVs, exclusive night clubs, Botox — that kind of thing. An 80 percent poverty rate is so not my style. Nothing against it — I’m just saying: Not how I roll. You’re doing great work, Pat, and I don’t want to clip your wings — just, come on, you’re making me look bad. And not the good kind of bad. Keep blaming God. That’s working. But leave me out of it, please. Or we may need to renegotiate your own contract.

Best,
Satan


This letter was sent in to Star Tribune in the Twin Cities by a reader named Lily Coyle. Whoever you are, wherever you are, God Bless You, Lily Coyle.

The Golden Rule

I can’t remember exactly what started us discussing the Golden Rule at the dinner table. Probably had something to do with the constant bickering between the two of them.

“Remember the Golden Rule? What is the Golden Rule?” I wheedled.

“I know: it’s something like ‘Love thy neighbors’.” My oldest has the knack of answering any question with utter conviction without knowing anything about it. I hope he goes into law or politics so as to optimize this talent one day…

“I know: We were just talking about it in our class…” Mr. Monk said.

“I remember now,” my oldest said, and he did, sort of, “it is something like ‘Do unto others how you would like to be treated’.”

“No! You are wrong! That’s not how it’s said!” Mr. Monk protested.

Before this escalated into another heated argument over nothing, I clapped my hands, “Okay guys. The official phrase is ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you’. But you know what it means. I just want to say this: ‘When in doubt, evoke the Golden Rule.’ Okay?”

“Reinforce Moral Upbringing of Offspring.” Check.

An hour later…

The two boys were wrestling on the floor. As Mr. Monk was being overpowered by his older brother,

“What is the Golden Rule? *pant* What is the Golden Rule?! Ahhhh. *pant* Hrrrmmmph. REMEMBER THE GOLDEN RULE!!”

WTF Wednesday: Eye? Aye!

It is Thursday (and actually soon will be Friday…) Yes, I am cheating again by backdating my post. But it IS Wednesday somewhere in the world, right? Oh. Who cares. It is a WTF post by me when I’ve got my WTF glasses on. (Yeah, this line is for you my Wicked Kitchen Lady…) So WTF ANYTIME… FTW!

We received a Christmas card from a high school friend of my husband’s. The address label on the envelop was one of those personalized family labels with the faces that are supposed to represent each member in the family.

Get your family labels here! Personalized to fit your family!

Our friends are of Asian descent, and therefore the figures on the address label all have black hair, and it does remind us of them: with the appropriate hair styles. To my surprise, my husband was interested in getting a set for us.

“Maybe for next Christmas?” He emailed me with the link.

Don’t you just love how they add things to your list with a nice question like that?

Fine. I thought. It could be cute. Naturally I was already wondering how we were going to represent our multiracial family. Perhaps I could get some message out with each letter I mail. Represent! I thought. Things could get very interesting. I thought. Little did I know that it was going to be VERY INTERESTING alright.

I browsed through the site, looked at the samples, and clicked on ORDER:

Choose your head and hair style here: Male and female heads

They do have a wide selection for heads/hair styles. At this point, my kids became curious in this project and they were getting excited, impatiently waiting for their turn to choose their own faces.

“Oh oh oh. Choose this one!”

“No. Mom looks more like this one!”

Finally we (i.e. the kids) settled on a hair style for me.

So many heads, so little time... to make my decision I mean...

By selecting the head style, we were then shown a variety (i.e. THREE) of different skin tones and many hair colors to choose from.

So many hair colors to choose from! Should I go with my natural color or my highlighted color?

“Mom, pick the Dark Brown Hair. That looks more like you.” My oldest said.

“Mom, I am not sure what you should choose for your skin color. That one is too light, and that one is too dark.” My youngest said. He is a man of 100% honesty.

I was relieved that the instruction gave me the permission to select “Fair Skin” for myself, since I consider my complexion to be “tan”. I thought I’d go with Black Hair and Tan Skin because I did not want people to mistake me for a non-Asian person. However, my hair has not been BLACK BLACK for almost a decade: I discovered highlights many years ago and baby, let me tell you: I ain’t gonna go back. Fine. She looks too happy anyway. What I need really is a scowling face. I went with the kids’ suggestions.

Here comes the WTF moment. The first WTF moment…

(The following is a “dramatized” version of the screen I saw at the initial WTF moment. I went through the ordering process just so I could grab a screenshot to show you, my friends. You are welcome)

My jaw dropped. Add-on Features. “Asian eyes” is one of the 3 add-on features offered by the company. Along with Glasses and Santa Hat.

Asian Eyes. One of the only 3 add-on features. Me so honored.

“What the…?!” I stopped myself short. The kids looked at me, then looked at each other.

“Mom. You should check ‘Asian Eyes’ because you are Asian.” Mr. Monk, my youngest, said. With all honesty.

“Shut up.” My oldest chastised his brother.

“Hmmm. Honey, do you know that they offer ‘Asian Eyes’ as an Add-On Feature?! Next to Santa Hat and Glasses?!” I hollered at husband.

“Mom. What do the, eh, Asian Eyes look like?” My oldest asked. Now fully invested in this new development as well.

So we searched high and low on the website, and we finally found it. Ta da!

WTF Moment Numéro deux

Seriously. Do those eyes even belong to a human?

“What the heck is this? Voldemort?!” I was so startled by the unreality of it I burst out laughing.

My oldest was indignant. “That is so racist!”

“What is racist?” My youngest asked. But fortunately, immediately, “Those don’t look like your eyes. You should just use the black dots.”

I laughed even harder when I saw the labels for kids: “Have your kids feel special!”

Asian eyes, what? for the straight A kids? (Yes yes, I know, yet another stereotype...)

Oh, little Jennifer is going to feel special alright… When she is shown to be some evil spirit, creepy imbecile, or wicked mastermind with no pupils.

CODA: I am not trying to read too much into this. I am sure the company does this out of good intentions. What kind of idiot would want to set out to offend paying customers, right? They are trying so hard to operate in this multi-cultural, multi-racial, complex and wonderful world that the United States of America has become. But seriously, dude? Those “Asian Eyes” are beyond creepy. They gave me nightmares. I was wondering why you stopped there? Why didn’t you include an Add-on feature for Coolie Hat? (Ok. Ok. I can’t help it!…)

Asian eyes? Take that!

I Comment Therefore I Am: The Amazon Edition

Unknown Mami Here is another edition of I Comment Therefore I Am, following the footsteps of the great Unknown Mammi.

In this era of information overload, in a lot of the news blogs, especially political news blogs, comments are often the best part. Sometimes the scariest part. The comment section is like a looking glass through which you get a glimpse into what the other end of the spectrum is really thinking, under the cloak of anonymity. Wouldn’t you know that comments are also the best part in product review websites?

Amazon.com.

Bet you did not know the fun you would encounter by prowling the world’s largest retail store. Here is one that has become a legend, a pop culture reference:

Three Wolf Moon Short Sleeve Tee: BEST comments? You bet'ya!

As of now, there are 1,657 customer reviews of this shirt. WHAT? Yup.

In November 2008, one genius shopper, or social commentator, wrote a smashing, rave review of this shirt, which has since garnered 222 comments. More than that, 17,617 of 17,783 people found the review helpful. Sheer number counts make this review a force to be reckoned with. The popularity of the review and the number of imitators propelled this shirt to some Geek Stardom. Case in point: The final episode of The Office when Pam and Jim got hitched? Dwight was wearing this shirt when he proudly declared that he would be at the bar to pick up the ladies.

The review is funny as hell. Read on:

“This item has wolves on it which makes it intrinsically sweet and worth 5 stars by itself, but once I tried it on, that’s when the magic happened. After checking to ensure that the shirt would properly cover my girth, I walked from my trailer to Wal-mart with the shirt on and was immediately approached by women. The women knew from the wolves on my shirt that I, like a wolf, am a mysterious loner who knows how to ‘howl at the moon’ from time to time (if you catch my drift!). The women that approached me wanted to know if I would be their boyfriend and/or give them money for something they called mehth. I told them no, because they didn’t have enough teeth, and frankly a man with a wolf-shirt shouldn’t settle for the first thing that comes to him…” (Continue reading)

Satirical, rave reviews are often done to highlight the ridiculousness of the high price asked for the product. For this $500 audio cable, Denon AKDL1 Dedicated Link Cable, dueling reviews have been written: Yes! It solved Global Warming! and No! It caused alien invasion!

I know. Some people have way too much time on their hands. Speaking of people with too much time AND money on their hands… SOMEONE alerted me to this Land Cruiser for sale. At $19,999.95 it is a steal, won’t you say? But the reviews are priceless.

JL421 Badonkadonk Land Cruiser/Tank: I think this is an ACTUAL product and not meant to be a joke...

You know how I love making a point when given the chance, therefore when I saw how much the baby bath book is fetching…

If this is not a WTF moment, I don't know what is...

I had some fun…

Product reviews as a new form of satire. What has the world come to? Guilty as charged...